


beowulf + bolt cutter

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, George Eads Appreciation Week, Hurt Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Jack knows, as soon as he throws the punch, it's a bad one.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 53





	beowulf + bolt cutter

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to a few of my brainstorming buddies: Kailene, Underdefined67, CommanderBunnBunn, anguishmacgyver, pandi19, altschmerzes who helped make this fic possible. 
> 
> As with all my stories, this takes place in a universe where Mac never loses Jack. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Happy GEAW!

Jack knows, as soon as he throws the punch, it is a bad one.

He's thrown more than his share of punches. This one is gonna hurt.

Too late to recall it, too far gone to hesitate now, he lets the jab land wrong on Goon Four's jaw. Pain explodes in his hand. Jaw clenching. Knee staggering. Eye watering pain, followed by a prickling rush of anger down his spine.

His hope that the strength behind the blow is enough for a solid knockout evaporates. Goon Four's eyes flutter. He sways, then gathers his wits and remains standing.

Jack growls. Shaking off the shudder of pain rattling up his arm. Harnessing his anger and frustration for a follow up jab.

"No, ya don't, ya Punch Face," Jack snarls, eyes narrowing. Swinging hard.

This one does the job. Cracking against Four's jaw, the goon's eyes roll back, lids slam shut and he goes down hard. Crumpling in a heap next to Three.

Letting the flood of adrenaline carry him, Jack spins on his heel, surveying the room. The only sound is his quick, aborted breaths, coming a hitch too fast through clenched teeth. Room secure, he grants himself a moment. Clutching the injured limb to his chest.

Another breath. Two. Before Jack convinces himself to look down and assess the damage.

There's a warm spatter of blood on his knuckles, glinting off the sharp points of Beowulf.

With another deep breath, bracing himself, he gives a tentative, prodding nudge. A hiss of pain escapes his lips, and his vision darkens for a moment, but the blood is from one of the assailants, not his own. His skin rapidly bruising, but intact.

Frustration wars with relief as he wiggles his fingers, watching the ripple of bone and tendon under skin. It aches and is going to stiffen up something fierce, but he's got movement. And sensation.

Oh damn, he can feel it.

With a grimace, he reaches for the hem of his shirt, blotting up the blood, knows from experience that getting it out of the many crevices of Beowulf is a pain in the ass. 

"Least I'm not ruining a good t-shirt this time," Jack says, tapping the pile of goons with the toe of his boot before moving to the door. He needs to find Mac. "New rule, only these cheap v-necks on missions. No more ruining band shirts with blood or explosives."

Gravity brings a fresh pulse of pain when he drops his hand to his side.

"Or, I could just buy duplicates. One for work and one for play," Jack mumbles to himself. A distraction. It works for the kid. He gears himself up for a long-winded rant. "You'll love that, won'tcha, Mac? Always getting on me for buying concert t-shirts cause they jack up the price. But ya gotta get the t-shirt, Mac. How else you gonna brag that you were there?"

They've road tripped to concerts across the country, managed to convince first Patti and later Matty to delay an ex-fil flight just long enough for Jack to sing himself hoarse with his favorite bands.

"Don't do it," Mac will warn after they navigate the crowd to their seats, take a few selfies, and Jack announces he's going to stretch his legs.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Jack will fake a confused, half-smile and shake his head as he wanders off, returning later with a Cheshire grin and a souvenir bag clutched tightly in his hands.

Mac will raise an eyebrow, eyeing the package with a sigh. "It's not environmentally or economically friendly."

"You recycle everything you get your hands on, that makes up for it, I think," Jack will argue. "Just... let me do this. It's important to me."

"Buy all the t-shirts you want, for yourself, but you don't have to waste your money on me."

"It ain't wasting."

"I don't need them," Mac will insist. A drawer full of t-shirts in Mac's dresser, and anyone who's seen it, assumes it belongs to Jack. And to be fair, there is a drawer like that, filled with t-shirts and sweatshirts for days when Jack stays over, which Mac borrows from regularly. Jack likes the idea of Mac finding comfort in his clothes

But this drawer is Mac's. Ticket stubs, roadmaps, and snapshots tucked between folded, never worn fabric. But he has caught Mac sifting carefully through the drawer of souvenirs, lost in thought.

"I think it's good for you to have them. Something tangible that you can pull out and hold in your hands that reminds ya I love you."

Mac will blink at the words and blush, and the t-shirt in the bag that Mac insists he doesn't need and matches the one Jack is wearing, will find its way into his drawer.

Moving stealthily, Jack pauses, listening. Clearing one corridor then stalking ahead, deeper into the building. To the safe Mac is cracking.

"Let's split up," Jack mumbles under his breath in a sing-song voice. "Hate that, hoss. Hate it. Bad things happen when you're out of my sight."

Jogging a few steps down the hall, ignoring the way the motion jostles his hand, Jack slows again as he approaches another corridor.

"You're plenty capable, I know, but I hate letting ya do dumb stuff alone. And this job is dumb," Jack elongates the vowel, peering around the corner. It's clear and he continues. "Just feels better when you do the world-saving and I'm right there to do the Mac-saving."

From deep within the compound metal crashes against metal. 

Jack freezes.

Pounding footsteps echo and a rattling clatter. Jack pushes himself against the wall beside the next threshold, waiting. Listening.

His heart rate ticks up, recognizing the pattern of the breakneck footfalls.

"Told ya," Jack grumbles, forcing his creaking hand into a fist. Ready for the next round.

"Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack," Mac yells. Tearing through the hallways with a goon hot on his heels. Any remaining element of surprise forfeited. Trusting Jack to save them.

Mac skids around the corner like a puppy on a patch of ice, arms pinwheeling to keep his balance.

Vaulting from his obscured corner, Jack reaches out, snagging Mac's upper arm. Using the momentum, he swings a yelping Mac around behind him to safety, while throwing another punch which sends Goon Five spinning.

Swallowing a cry of pain into a growl, he follows that punch with a quick one-two jab and then a whoop when the last goon tumbles to the floor.

"Any more chasing you?" Jack asks, quickly disarming Five, zip-tying his hands and glancing up in concern.

"He's the only one I ran into," Mac puffs. "Almost got away clean too."

“You alright?” Jack moves, standing in front of Mac, scanning him from head to toe.

“Never touched me,” Mac says, still panting softly, holding up his arms and allowing the visual inspection, knowing how Jack gets when he’s been out of his sight too long and sometimes it’s just easier to go with it.

Jack pushes back one side of Mac’s leather jacket, then the other, giving him a quick glance then a nod. “That ain’t code for something? Like he didn’t touch you but a bullet did?”

“That’s a good one, I’ll have to remember it,” Mac smirks.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t know, eidetic memory. Might be stuck in there.” Mac taps his temple.

“Yeah well, get it out of there,” Jack grumbles, mimicking the motion, tapping the side of Mac’s head with two fingers.

Mac smiles and ducks away from Jack’s hand, spinning him around and shoving him gently back up the corridor. Moving in tandem, they retrace their steps to the entrance they breached. “You’re okay, right?”

"You think I can't take out five goons?"

"I think you're avoiding the question."

"Nothing an ice pack won't cure," Jack says, a statement which might have been true before that last punch, surreptitiously shoving his bruising hand into his pocket.

Mac cranes his neck, meeting Jack's gaze with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" Jack growls.

"What do you mean, what?"

"I got some bruises okay? Stop looking at me like that." Jack swings his other arm out, across Mac's chest, slowing him as they approach the next turn in their maze to the exit, peering around the corner before proceeding.

Mac grabs Jack's shoulder, stopping their progress and Jack growls.

"What do I need to know?"

"That we should get out of here before we run into any more trouble and get to ex-fil."

"You seem a little cranky for just bruises."

"A toddler who misses naptime is cranky. I'm not cranky. You're cranky."

Mac laughs. "Cantankerous."

"Well, I sure as hell ain't old enough to be cantankerous," Jack sputters. "Those my only two options? Toddler or old man? Can't I just be tired agent who wants to go home?"

"Hey, come on. Teasing aside, are you okay?"

"I'm gonna have a shiner. Bruised ribs. Knuckles are a little stiff." Inside his pocket, Jack flexes his fingers. Pain zaps through his hands and he allows a small grimace. "A lot stiff. It'll keep."

By the time they make it to the jet, Jack is almost ready to admit his hand is hurting more than it should be. 

Almost. 

The way Mac keeps side eyeing him, he knows his confession is inevitable. He oscillates between the desire to keep quiet and lick his wounds in private - which won’t happen because Mac isn’t gonna leave him alone long enough, he’s developed his own version of a spidey sense- versus conceding that he’s hurting, revealing the injury to Mac and accepting both the lecture he’d have sprung on the kid if the situation was reversed, and some concerned comfort from his boy.

Following Mac up the boarding stairs, he uncharacteristically exchanges only a nod with the pilots, not stopping to chat. Mac’s eyes follow him down the aisle, though his attention appears focused on the conversation he’s having. 

Jack drops into his usual chair across from the couch. Eyes closed, he presses the back of his head against the seat, breathing through the pain from the jostling movement. He can feel Mac’s concerned frown fixed on him. 

After a minute, Mac ends the conversation, and the plane begins taxiing. Moving down the aisle, he casually shrugs off his coat, dropping it on the couch. Rummaging through the fridge, he pulls out two waters. Tapping it against Jack’s shoulder, he passes one over, raising an eyebrow when Jack reaches up, accepts the bottle and sets it down next to him. 

“Alright, what’s up?” 

Jack cracks one eye, looks across the aisle as Mac sits, and feigns ignorance. 

“I let you tough it out but now I need you to tell me what’s going on. Where are you hurting?”

“Told ya, bruises.”

“Fine. Let me see.” 

Jack shrugs, keeping his hand in his pocket. But he leans into his seat, pushing his shoulders back and chest out. Broad shoulders pulling open his jacket. 

A curious look crosses Mac’s face, as though Jack is a particularly vexing puzzle. And Jack supposes right now, he is. He’s being ornery. Pain making him stubborn. Doesn’t know why he’s not just being honest with the kid. He understands, too well, the particular brand of annoyance Mac is feeling right now. He just can’t stop himself from making this more difficult for both of them. 

Mac sits forward on the edge of his seat, pushing the edges of Jack’s jacket further apart, looking up and daring Jack to stop him.

But Jack just shrugs. 

Mac reaches for the hem of Jack’s t-shirt and pauses, brow lowering, fingers hovering over the patch of dried blood. 

“Not mine. I promise.” And he feels a twinge of remorse about worrying Mac, making his job more difficult.

Mac hikes the t-shirt, as though he’s expecting to catch Jack in a lie. 

“Told ya,” Jack gloats, swallowing the words when Mac’s fingers brush against tender ribs. Mac prods at the ribs again. 

“Don’t think they’re broken,” Mac concedes. 

Jack grunts when Mac pokes again for good measure, before running his hands across Jack’s belly looking for signs of internal bleeding, anything to explain his partner’s stormy mood. 

Mac rustles Jack’s t-shirt back into place, studying his face. 

“Blurred vision, headache, nausea?” He asks as his hand cups Jack’s chin, holding him steady, checking his pupils then prodding at the bruise forming under his eye. 

“Nah, not concussed. I’ve had enough to know.” 

“Fine, you want to be stubborn? Go ahead." Mac scoots back, still studying Jack. "Drink your water.”

Jack glances down at the bottle next to him, nodding. “That might be a little problem.” 

Mac frowns.

“Not sure I’m gonna be able to open it.” Wincing, Jack drags his hand from his pocket, the motion awakening pain again. It looks significantly worse than when he shoved it in there. 

“Busted up my hand a little bit.”

“Jack!”

“It’s fi- “ Jack begins, then shakes his head, confessing. “It... hurts.” 

“Let me see.”

Jack pulls his hand protectively towards his chest, shaking his head. “Nah, we’re good.” 

Mac holds out his hand expectantly, and raises an eyebrow. 

With another grumble, Jack surrenders his hand to Mac, laying it limply on his open palm. Watching out of the corner of his eye as the kid examines it from all angles, not touching. At least not yet. Only a matter of time before the kid gets curious and starts poking and prodding and …

“Ohh,” Jack gasps, flinching back, but Mac’s grip is tight around his wrist and the heel of his hand, keeping him still. “Didn’t take you long to get all… handsy.”

Groaning at the pun, Mac rolls his eyes and murmurs, “sorry.” His attention firmly on the hand in his. “Can you make a fist?”

Biting his lip, the deep, throbbing aches turns into a livewire spasm as Jack obeys the request. Instead of folding into alignment, the last two fingers stack on top of the others as Jack closes his hand and pants through the pain. 

“I think you fractured your fourth and fifth metacarpals and proximal phalanges.” Mac presses his thumb hard against the nail bed, then releases the pressure, watching the blanched skin turn pink again. Repeating the action on Jack’s other finger. 

“Huh, I was thinking it was my ring finger and pinkie.” Jack wiggles the mentioned fingers on his opposite, uninjured hand. 

“It is,” Mac says slowly. Looking up and monitoring jack’s expression as his fingers ghost over swollen skin. Jack hisses. “Plus the bones in your hand here. Boxer’s fracture.”

“Okay, not great. Could be worse. Tape me up, good as new. No need to bother anyone.” 

“Yeah, no,” Mac shakes his head. “I’ll splint it, until we get you to Medical, but you’re going to need an x-ray.” 

“Mac,” Jack elongates the vowel into about three syllables. 

“I’m not taking a risk with your hand, Jack.”

“I’ve broken lots of fingers.”

“Not like this. I bet you’re going to be in a cast for a couple of weeks at least.”

“Aw, Mac! No,” Jack whines. “You know how much I hate casts.”

“It’s not like this is my decision, big guy.”

“They’re always so itchy, and you won’t let me stick anything down there to scratch.”

“Because that’s dangerous.”

“And the last time I had one on my arm, I about brained myself twice a day cause I kept forgetting it was on there.” 

“Be more careful?”

“Nasty, dry, scaly skin when it comes off.” 

“I’ll get you some lotion,” Mac gives a bemused smile.

Jack purses his lips. “I could take my chances.”

“You could have permanently crooked fingers.”

“I could live with that. Would give me something to talk about at parties.”

“Cause you need help with making conversation.”

“It can be something you talk about at parties.”

“How my ex-partner was forced to retire because his hand didn’t heal right.”

Jack waves him off.

“I’m serious. You could end up losing significant range of motion and your ability to grip anything.” 

Jack scowls. “Matty’ll bench me if I’m in a cast.”

“She’ll bench you permanently if your hand doesn’t work.”

The scowl deepens 

“Come on, move over the table,” Mac says, patting Jack’s shoulder as he stands, gathering the first aid kit. “And you’d better get that ring off before it gets stuck. Your hand is getting swollen.” 

Frowning, Jack drags his feet as he moves up the aisle, grumbling all the while. Tugging on the silver band. A jolt of pain reverberates through his hand and Jack yelps. Blinding white light fills his vision. He staggers, catching himself on a seat back as his knees go weak.

“Hey,” Mac drops the finger splints on the table and catches Jack under his arm. “Careful.” 

Jack pants through the pain, the ring remains firmly in place. “Maybe you better…” Jack sighs and holds his hand out.

“Yeah, okay, sit down,” Mac guides Jack into his seat and settles across the table from him. “Try to straighten it…” Mac manipulates Jack’s hand, holding it firmly, supporting broken digits as Jack breathes harshly through his nose. “But relax.” 

“I can’t straighten it and relax at the same time,” Jack grinds out between clenched teeth. 

Fingers closing around Beowulf, Mac gives an experimental pull. It barely budges. 

Jack feels the color drain from his face and swallows back a roll of nausea, but schools his features into granite, when Mac looks up. 

“We’re good, keep going.” 

“I don’t know, man. It’s on there pretty good.”

“Just give it a good yank.” Jack closes his eyes and braces for the pain.

“I don’t want to displace anything any more than it already is.”

“Nah, it’ll be fine.” Jack assures. “Come on, Mac. Pull harder.” 

Mac frowns, tries twisting, stopping when Jack can’t hold back a cry of pain. “It’s not coming off. I think I’m going to have to cut it.”

“No,” Jack takes a couple of deep breaths, getting his pain under control. “Try again, it’ll be okay.”

“Jack.”

“Look, they’re gonna do an x-ray anyway, they can reset anything you jerk out of alignment.”

“Jack! I’m not displacing the bones in your hand for a damn ring.” 

“We didn’t even try soaping it up.” 

Mac scrubs his jaw. 

“Or I don’t know… gotta have some grease… oil! There’s probably oil in the galley. Chocolate sauce. You love making stuff out of chocolate sauce.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna-”

“You carry lube, right?”

Mac shuffles through his messenger bag. “Yeah, but all the lube in the world isn’t going to decrease the swelling in your finger.”

“Just try.” 

Tearing open the packet, Mac liberally applies the lubricant to Jack’s finger, gently twisting the ring. 

“Jack, it’s on there tight. I can’t” Mac’s fingers slip, but the ring stays put. 

“Maybe at the Phoenix they can-”

“What? Take your finger off so we don’t damage your ring?”

Jack’s mouth opens then closes, head canting to one side as though he’s considering that as an option.

“Jack!”

“It’s Beowulf!”

“You’d risk losing a finger? On your shooting hand?”

“No,” Jack whines in frustration. “Alright, fine. You’re pretty excited to come at me with a bolt cutter, though, dude. And I’m not sure I like that.”

“Maybe if you’d been honest with me from the beginning we could have gotten the ring off then,” Mac mutters, turning on the overhead reading light. “Give me your phone.”

“You’re gonna break that too?”

“I just want the flashlight,” Mac says, pulling out his own and positioning it to shine on Jack’s purpling finger. Mac clasps Jack’s hand, cleaning away the remaining tube. Turning his hand and examining the band and the swelling as he determines his next steps. 

“Do not move,” Mac warns. 

Jack nods, face serious. He watches Mac prepare himself, the same way he’s watched through a scope for years. It’s not so different than snipping the wire on a ticking bomb. Mac flips out his Swiss Army Knife, wriggling the bolt cutter on the tool under the band. It pushes hard against his finger and makes him want to shiver. 

Jack closes his eyes, ignoring the instinct to hold his breath, forcing himself to copy Mac’s rhythmic breathing. He doesn’t want to lose a finger, and he doesn’t want Mac blaming himself

The band is thick. The metal strong. Mac takes another steadying breath, squeezing the grip tight, applying steady even pressure. His jaw clenches and Jack can see the effort he makes to relax. Maybe it’s not quite the same as snipping a wire.

“Come on,” Mac mutters, adjusting his grip and squeezing harder.

The ring gives with a reluctant  _ snick _ . But the pressure remains. 

Mac eases the tool away from Jack’s hand and tugs on the ring, huffing in frustration when it remains firmly in place.

“Hold on.” Mac pats down his pockets. “Just need some leverage.” 

He wedges one paperclip and then another through the small break in the silver, sliding one onto each side of the split ring, and pulls, separating the edges, expanding the size of the band until he can ease it from Jack’s finger. A tandem sigh of relief when the ring slips off, clattering against the table. 

“Hey, Mac?” Jack waits until the kid looks up from examining Jack’s hand again, making sure neither the tool, not the freshly cut metal sliced through skin. “Thanks.” 

Mac nods, but remains silent, eyes darting downward. He runs an antiseptic wipe over Jack's hand. 

“And I’m sorry,” Jack grunts, gripping his wrist, holding his throbbing hand still as Mac manipulates his fingers into the brace. He studies Mac’s face. “You’re angry.”

Mac pauses, considering his feelings, before nodding again.

"Okay, that's... that's fair."

"No. No, it's actually not fair. Because you wouldn't let this slide if it had been me."

"I 'fessed up."

"No, you didn’t. I asked you if you were okay, and you told me bruises. But looking at this... did you really think it was just bruises?" Mac meets Jack's gaze.

Jack winces. "I was... thinking it was probably worse than just bruises."

"And you didn't tell me. So what was that? Some sort of lone wolf thing?” Mac reaches out, tapping Beowulf against the table. “Because we've talked about that. The whole 'you don't get to do anything stupid without me' thing. It goes both ways." Mac turns his attention back to the splint and Jack's hand. "Or I thought it did. It’s why we work as a team and not solo agents. I thought we… I thought you trusted me. I guess I was wrong.”

“No, Mac, hell no. I trust you.” Jack looks up, meeting his eyes, face serious. “I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

“Then I don’t understand why you were so infuriatingly stubborn about this. It sure didn't feel like you trusted me. Didn't think I'd be able to get us out of a building where you'd already taken care of the guards?"  


"That's not what this was."

"Then what? 

“Because I want you to be able to trust me.”

Mac raises an incredulous eyebrow. “So, to achieve that, you lie to me?” 

“I protect you, Mac-”

“Lying isn’t protecting-”

“You are my mission. You save the world and I make sure that you don’t sacrifice yourself to do it. If I get hurt doing my job, just by throwing a punch-”

“You... you think that will make me stop trusting you?”

Jack looks down at his hand, still trapped in between Mac’s on the table. “It’s always in the back of my head, that I’ve got over a decade on you. I’m very aware that I’m playing with house money. If I’m lucky, I’ll retire from the field long before you’re ready to. That bugs me. What if I’m slowing down?”

Mac blinks. “You’re not.”

“I broke my hand throwing a punch, hoss. Do you know how many punches I have to throw every mission? That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“Sometimes,” Mac begins slowly, as though it’s painful to admit, “there are bombs that I can’t disarm.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because, you’re pulling off miracles. Things regular people can't do."  


Mac scoffs. 

"The world needs you, Mac. And I'm proud to watch your back. It kills me to think of anyone else doing it, but I'm a dime a dozen."

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

"I couldn't do my thing without you. Wouldn't want to. And besides, in the ten years that I’ve known you, this makes… one bad punch? Those odds seem okay to me. And I’m pretty good with statistics.”

Jack shakes his head. “And what if it happens again, sometime when it really matters-”

“Then I guess that’s why you’ve got a partner,” Mac shrugs. “I know you generally take on the more physical role, but I can throw a punch. I can take a hit.”

“I don’t like it when you take a hit,” Jack grumbles. 

“I don’t like it when you do either,” Mac counters.

“It’s my job.”

“Then maybe we need to talk again about the division of labor. You’re more than just the brawn in this partnership. I value your insight. Your... wisdom. Shut up," Mac smirks and grows serious again. " You’ve always been there to step up. You fill in my… my weaknesses without even needing to think about it. Without me needing to ask. I thought you trusted me to do the same.”

“I do.” Brown eyes meet blue. “I trust you, Mac. With my life. With Riley's life. You're my best friend, the closest family I've ever had. I need you, Mac. That’s never been a question. And I am sorry that I made you feel like it was.”

Mac nods, turning his attention to finishing splinting Jack’s fingers. 

“Do you… you probably don’t… do you remember when I got Beowulf?”

“I just assumed he was one of your many questionable fashion choices.”

“Ha.”

“You asked Patti for a ‘Jack-signal’ in the silhouette of a wolf.”

“Dude, that would have been so cool. You look up. There it is. Gotta go. My partner and I need to save the world again.”

“So you’d be the… Wolfman?”

“This ain’t Halloween. I’d probably… I’d probably just go by Beowulf actually.”

“Okay…” Mac chuckles shaking his head. 

“I’m not real surprised you don’t remember it. We’d been with DXS, about six months. You called an audible. Saved my life. I still don’t know what it was you saw or heard that tipped you off.”

“Croatia?”

“Yeah, you remember?”

“I remember that I don’t remember.”

“The hit you took,” Jack shakes his head. “You were pretty scrambled upstairs. Don’t think you actually cleared until we were back home.” 

“And where does Beowulf fit into this?”

“Did you know Beowulf wasn’t actually a wolf. He’s a dude. I just like the name. He was a warrior. A king eventually. Defeated some demons and sea monsters or something.” 

Mac snickers. 

“But the ring, Beowulf, I found in a market near the hospital. They were sticklers about visiting hours and I was waiting until they’d let me see you again. I saw it and thought of you. Had I been lone wolfing it, I wouldn’t be here. I need a pack. You’re my pack.” 

* * *

If Jack was a cat, he would probably be purring. Stretching in a warm sunbeam, curled up in a lounge chair on the deck. Relaxed in a way that comes from absolute trust and faith in the person sitting next to him.  


His hand and last two fingers, encased in what was a previously white cast, rests in Mac’s lap. Covered in dozens of signatures and doodles from his family, various ex-fil and TAC team members, Reese and Audrey from Medical. 

Mac, sharpies in hand, fills in the remaining blank spaces with mathematical equations and chemical formulas and little tiny paperclips. 

Yawning, Jack stretches and leans over, watching Mac’s work. 

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving a space for Bruce Willis’ autograph,” Mac promises, not looking up. Tapping the small blank spot on the medial side of Jack’s wrist. 

“Ohh, that is prime real estate right there.” 

Mac caps the marker he was using and selects the next one. Swirling vibrant colors weave between signatures, forming a stylistic wolf pack. 

“A reminder, until you can wear Beowulf again,” Mac says. 

“I don’t know, dude, he was special. The odds of finding another one…”

“Another one?”

“You kinda… cut him in half… not that I’m not grateful, cause the doc said that probably saved my finger but…” 

Mac clicks the cap on the marker he’s using and digs into his pocket. “Nothing a little soldering iron and some smithed silver can’t fix.” He holds out the intact ring. “I’d maybe leave him at home during missions though. Take him off before you want to punch someone.”

**Author's Note:**

> Audrey from Medical belongs to CommanderBunnBunn


End file.
